


The Offering

by October_rust



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ASoIaF, ASoIaF Kink Meme, AU, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-12
Updated: 2012-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-05 06:02:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/October_rust/pseuds/October_rust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for the following prompt at the ASoIaF/GoT kinkmeme: <i> Melisandre/Theon/Jon (can also be Melisandre + Jon/Theon); the red priestess demands Jon (the reborn Azor Ahai) and Theon join her for a special ritual. (let's assume Theon escaped to the Wall before Winterfell was taken by Ramsay) </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Offering

“The fires do not lie, lord Snow. Such is the way to the victory.”

And next, the silks were sliding off, revealing the beautifully proportioned breasts, the narrow waist, and, lower still, a triangle of shiny red curls at the juncture of slender thighs. Eyes, in which flames seemed to be constantly swirling, were calmly looking at Jon Snow and Theon Greyjoy. 

The silent command in the crimson gaze was impossible to ignore, so, grim-faced, Jon stripped off his cloak, leathers, and weapons, till he stood naked before the priestess. However, torn between the temptation and fear, Greyjoy hesitated with one hand on his belt.

“You heard Lady Melisandre. Do as she bids, Greyjoy.”

A furious glare was levelled at Jon; nevertheless, a direct order from the superior officer could not be disregarded. And, if Jon was to be entirely honest with himself, having Greyjoy swallow the resentment and obey him, had been a source of a dark, secret pleasure, ever since the ironborn had ended up on the Wall.

In his worst nightmares, Greyjoy hadn't probably envisioned himself serving under Jon Snow, much less serving the lord commander in the manner requested by the priestess of R'hllor. Yet, as the sworn brother he had no choice. The fulfilment of the ancient prophecies, so that the Others could be driven back into the cold wasteland from whence they came, was more important than wounded pride or offended modesty.

Thus, all the while not breaking eye contact with Jon, Greyjoy began to undo the laces, his jerky movements attesting to the barely contained anger. 

“I'm not going to bend over for you, Snow.”

Indeed, it was a poorly masked panic feeding the aggression. Jon only shook his head.

“Oh, but you are wrong, Greyjoy. And I do not relish the prospect, contrary to what you might believe.”

The scene of the ritual about to be performed was a dimly-lit chamber. What distinguished it from the other rooms in Castle Black, however, were its peculiar furnishings: a large, comfortable bed, around which four braziers were placed. _An altar awaiting the sacrifice,_ Jon thought, striving to keep his apprehension in check.

Lady Melisandre picked up a chalice from the bedside table and, having taken a sip, offered the cup to the lord commander. To Jon's relief, sweet wine, spiced with herbs, was within. _To dull the senses and make the ceremony easier, no doubt._ After he drank some, he passed the chalice to Greyjoy, who seemed in dire need of liquid courage.

What little comfort the wine had provided was shaken again, as Lady Melisandre exchanged the cup for an intricately carved dagger. 

“The slumbering dragon must be awakened,“ she intoned, cuttingly lightly, and pressing Jon's and Theon's palms together. The old blood of the North mingled freely with that of the Iron Islands, and, watching the rivulets of red slowly seep through the entwined fingers, Jon was struck by the absurdity of the situation. No affection had ever existed between himself and Greyjoy, and yet another set of unshakeable ties was binding them now. And soon, the two enemies would be brought closer than ever before.

Ironically, the intense dislike Jon and Greyjoy harboured for each other was one of the reasons why the two were to participate in the ritual. After all, hate could burn as hotly as love, and R'hllor looked favourably upon all the passions animating the mortals. Moreover, the Lord of Light had to ascertain His supremacy; the fire and heat were to sweep through every realm, even the watery domain of the Drowned God. And what better way for R'hllor to triumph over the false idol, than to claim the man whose House had always worshipped the sea? 

'Claim,' had been the word Lady Melisandre had used in reference to Greyjoy, but it could have been applied to Jon as well. A reluctant instrument of R'hllor's will, he took a deep breath, and gazed at the priestess.

The red eyes met his, strangely compassionate.“You are weakened and plagued by doubts, Jon Snow. But I promise you, once this night is over,” she said, tracing the healing scar at his throat, “the cold death that dwells beyond the Wall shall be no match for your power. Embrace the Lord of Light.”

And she kissed him, mouth hungry and warm against his. Dormant, the embers in the braziers started to flicker, the sparks growing brighter, as the priestess's lips, in turn, covered Greyjoy's. When she moved away, the ironborn gave a curt nod, tacitly accepting his part in the rite.

No point in delaying the inevitable, they took the next step towards their goal. The bed dipped under the weight of the three bodies, and Melisandre demanded Jon and Greyjoy touch her, let the rapture build for the glory of R'hllor.

Smooth and unblemished her skin was, and their lips and palms gladly mapped its surface. Still, the priestess sighed it was not enough, so they delved lower, spreading her legs to slip their fingers inside her. The steady, circling motions made her wet; eventually, Jon and Theon used their mouths on her as well, and, stroking at her flesh, their tongues brushed against each other more than once.

Such mishaps notwithstanding, the fires burst higher in answer to the shivers rippling through Melisandre. And yet, though her skin was as scalding to the touch as a newly forged blade, the lady herself was but a detached observer to her own pleasure. Cool and distant, she smiled at Jon and Greyjoy, reminding them that this was all done in the name of duty.

Duty or not, the intended result was achieved, for she arched against their lips, as they kissed and licked her to completion.

“Lie together. Give yourselves over to R'hllor.”

Her words, despite a slightly breathless note, conveyed she was not to be denied. Entranced by the low cadence of her voice, his composure wavering, Jon glanced at Theon. Slowly, he assessed the strong arms, the muscular chest tapering down to the flat abdomen, and the thick, hard length between the ironborn's thighs. Against Jon's better judgement, his fingers itched to follow the path of his gaze, to learn these new shapes and textures. 

Having noticed his interest, Greyjoy flushed and gritted out. “Are you done with gaping, Snow? Then bugger me and save the realm, lord commander.” The mocking tone, however, was at odds with the flash of disquiet in Theon's eyes. 

Some preparations were necessary before the consummation of the act, and Lady Melisandre took a small vial from the table. Jon let out a surprised moan, when her palm, slippery with the scented oil, glided over his cock. Stirred thus, his desire was augmented further as he watched her fingers disappear into the cleft of Greyjoy's arse, the unfamiliar touch eliciting a curse from the ironborn.

“Take him.”

Shameful, how eager his flesh was to heed the priestess's summons. Perhaps some mysterious ingredients in the wine and the oil were to blame; nevertheless, neither aphrodisiacs, nor spells could account for all of the wayward impulses. _Hate burns as hotly as love._ Indeed, hunger, not unlike the one from his restless wolf dreams, was gnawing at Jon. This time, though, he craved a different kind of hunt. 

Being shoved on his back was not what Greyjoy had expected. “Not on all fours? How sweet of you, Snow.” And yet, the taunts had a strained quality to them; the muscles under Jon's hands were rigid, as if in readiness for a fight. 

“For Winterfell, eh, Snow?”

_Aye, to have it as it once was, before you condemned it to death and ruin._ It was Greyjoy's last, desperate attempt to hurt Jon enough to lose control, to reduce everything to the familiar cycle of cruel betrayal and revenge. Winterfell haunted both of its outcasts with the memories of happier days … and the subtle tension, never to be addressed, that ran between them and Robb. Was it merely jealousy over the beloved brother and friend? Unbidden, images were conjured up, of Theon laughing at Jon's innocence, of sword fights oft ending with thrown punches, of archery contests, during which Jon cast furtive glances at Greyjoy's long fingers idly caressing the bow … 

Lady Melisandre's chant, alternately rising and falling, wafted to his ears, anchoring Jon in the present. Face impassive, he braced himself on one arm, and pushed in, the first sting of penetration drawing an agonized hiss from Theon. The barely audible sound had Jon freeze, and he forced himself to go slowly, inch by inch, even though the urge to selfishly seek his own gratification was almost too overpowering. 

Defiant, Greyjoy looked at him through glazed eyes. “You're pathetic, bastard. Gods, that wildling of yours must have grown tired of your snivelling and bedded you out of pity. Tell me, did you cry when she fucked you?”

“Shut up!”

Poking at the old wounds had finally managed to flare up Jon's temper. His hips slammed against Greyjoy's, once, twice, trice, the bones groaning in protest at the brutal treatment. “Don't you dare talk about her,” he whispered brokenly into Theon's neck, then, on impulse, licked at the salty skin. 

A ragged chuckle vibrated in Greyjoy's throat, “High time you learned to use your prick properly, Snow.” 

What twisted game were they playing? Horrified, sick to his stomach with how easily he had just succumbed to the fury-driven lust, Jon tried to withdraw. His escape was thwarted by a fist in his hair, yanking his head down to Theon's. 

“No. Finish this, bastard.”

To his surprise, fingers drifted across the curve of his buttock, before giving it a firm squeeze. Reason lost to instinct, and, even as his mind was screaming at him to stop, Jon thrust back into the ring of slick, heated flesh.

He was still shuddering, swept into the whirl of sensations so intense as to border on pain, when, suddenly, sharp teeth nipped at his bottom lip.

“Grey --”

Whether this was supposed to be a warning or a plea Jon was never to know, for Theon's tongue was soon gliding against his, rhythmically advancing and retreating. Underneath the rich, smoky essence of the priestess, Jon tasted wine, and, buried deeper, the flavour that belonged to Greyjoy alone. Gods help him, how could this kiss, laden with long-simmering wrath and guilt, feel so good? With Ygritte, the caresses were full of joy and wonder; here, regret poisoned every touch.

The flames climbed up, uncannily alive, laying bare the emotions lurking in the two pairs of eyes: the raw, overwhelming desire, laced with some frightening emptiness. In a brief, unguarded moment Theon and Jon stared at each other, shocked into utter stillness. Then, all was frenzy once more, as Greyjoy was dragging Jon down for another kiss.

Their mouths met greedily, and Jon let his fingertips graze the sharp line of Theon's cheekbone and jaw. Next, he reached between their bodies, sliding his hand down the hard stomach to grasp Greyjoy's cock. 

A moan rewarded his boldness. Yet the deceptively soft noise was quickly followed by an oath and a rough tug at Jon's hair. In retaliation, Jon tightened his fist, increasing the pressure, circling the sensitive tip with his thumb. With so little space, the angle of the strokes was awkward, the thrusts of the hips frantic, but it was precisely this lack of gentleness that made Theon buck against Jon and claw at his shoulders.

“Jon ...”

The low, frustrated growl heralded Theon's release, and warm seed spurted across Jon's belly. Who was claiming whom, though? As Lady Melisandre's voice rose up another notch, pleasure ignited as well within Jon. With a shout, he spent himself, and collapsed atop Greyjoy.

They rested like that, all sweaty limbs, and heaving chests, the sticky mess drying on their skin. As if through a daze, Jon became aware of Lady Melisandre approaching the bed. When the priestess kissed his forehead in benediction, Jon imagined he could hear a hollow echo of the promise from the past, still thundering in Greyjoy's blood.

_Now and always._


End file.
